


To Be a King

by Arlyshawk



Series: Lord and Lady of the Wood [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, War of the Last Alliance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4048558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlyshawk/pseuds/Arlyshawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon returning from the Battle of the Last Alliance, Thranduil cannot help but feel the weight of his fate looming overhead. His wife comes to comfort him when the pressure bears down upon him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be a King

Thranduil touched the cuts and bruises on him with tentative fingers. Orc blades never made a clean cut, jagged and often made of crude iron that stung. They would not heal properly, they would scar and rise and become hills and valleys. He touched one that was on his ribcage and he hissed, wincing. He had no idea where that one came from but it made turning to the right nigh impossible.

Yet all of the slashes and bashes upon him were small when compared to the one burned in his mind’s eye. His father was dead, unhorsed and then volleyed with arrows. They had pieced his armor, biting deep like wolf teeth, and sundering his fëa from his physical form. Each day since he had buried his father, the memory lingered in his mind like smoke in a room.

A day of being pestered by the council had worn him thin. They consistently bothered him of when he would be coronated, what they would do with his mother now that she was widowed, what the people would think of him with Coruwen at his side… Eru, he did not want to think of that. Twas no secret that Coruwen was a Noldor; it was plain to see in her molten gold hair. Thranduil shook his head, trying to focus on the pleasant thought of sleeping.

“You are bleeding all over the nice rug your Nana found for us,” Coruwen’s silvery voice tickled his ears and he corkscrewed his head around to lock eyes with his wife. She lingered in the doorway of their chambers, blue eyes giving him a cursory glance. She came padding up to him, fingers touching the lines of his torso where the cuts were. She graced the wound on his ribs and he winced again, inhaling sharply. Coruwen narrowed her eyes up at him, “You never showed me these.”

“I thought they would not disturb me. Consider me wrong,” Thranduil replied, voice taut. She cocked an eyebrow up at him. She understood that he often suffered inner turmoil over his father, but he never expressed the physical pain.

Coruwen made a strange noise between a scoff and laugh, “Come with me, stubborn creature.”

She pulled him into the washroom and sat him down on a stool. She combed back his hair with gentle hands, fingers tracing over the point of his ear and then over the back of his head. They went down the curve of his neck and then over the hollow of his throat as she rounded him. Coruwen was close enough for him to see the faint grey flecks in her eyes and the freckles across her nose. She crossed the room to grab the tiny basket with herbs and a needle with a spool of catgut.

“I apologize for never telling you, meleth,” He told her as she opened a jar of balm and dipped her fingers into it to smear it on the larger wounds.

“Many warriors share your mindset, Thranduil,” Coruwen’s voice was even as she wiped the oily balm on a towel before threading the needle. She gave him a smile, the kind that came from her cheeks and eyes, “You are a busy ellon, I do not blame you.”

He frowned, “Whatever do you mean?”

“You are to be king. No prince is ready to be king, just as no child is prepared to lose a parent. And yet, you have lost both all in the same hand,” She was suturing the wound on his ribcage, her fingers were trained and her eyes were methodical, “The Council is no small task to manage.”

“If they pester me once more about how you are to be my mistress instead of my queen, I will certainly threaten one of them,” He grumbled. He watched as her shoulders became tense and she crinkled her nose. “I will not let you fall to that.”

“I never said you would let me. I merely wish to remind them that I am a princess by birth as you are a prince. Your father married a huntress and they were fine with her, no?”

Thranduil closed his eyes, “I have never heard anything different.”

“Then why is this such a problem? Tis normal for princesses and princes to marry, regardless of origin. We do not have time for them to be fickle,” Her voice grew sharp. “I cannot believe them…”

“Be at peace, Coruwen.”

“How can I?” He felt her pull the suture the wound closed and he opened his eyes to look at her. The irritation was plain on her fair face, “My people have done harm, yes. But I have proven myself to your Naneth and your Adar.”

“I know,” He took her slender hands with his own. “Do not let it bother you. My Naneth will sort all of this out if I cannot.”

She gave him a quick grin before gathered up clean bandages to wrap around his wounds. Her movements were careful as though to not touch the wounds that were healing or the sutured one. She hovered in front of him to tie the bandages around his ribs and he could smell the faint, piney scent of her hair. He recognized it as the rosemary oil that she used to tame the frizzy mess that her hair could become.

She tightened the bandage once more but he caught her hand. Her blue eyes went wide, “Do not let it bother you, love.”

“That is telling a duck not to flee to water,” She sighed. “But perhaps I can think of other things.”

He guided her back to their bedroom. It was warm, fire snapping and popping in the hearth, a stark difference to cold of the carven stone. He stole a glance back at his wife, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, twirling her hair around her fingers. Firelight blazed through her hair in shades of copper and orange that rolled like the sea.

Thranduil sat beside her. He ignored the ache in his muscles, the one that dug its heels into his bones and the hum in his head. It had been a few days since his father’s death and it itched under his skin. But he ignored it to help his concerned wife.

“Sleep might cure you as you have cured me,” He told her and kissed her softly. He eased her into her bed and under the quilts. He saw a smile blossom on her face and he cuddled her to him, dropping a kiss into her hair.

Her fingers curled over the hollow of his throat, “It will be strange for you to be king.”

“How so?”

“Not that I am denying it, but I never suspected that you would be so… willing,” She clarified. “I apologize… That was wrong of me.”

Sleep began to lull him, “No… You are fine as you are.”

“If you believe so,” She let out a airy laugh. “I suppose I should believe you.”

“Mhm-hm..”

He could hear the smile in her voice and she curled against him, "We will speak of this in the morning.“

**Author's Note:**

> fëa - The elvish word for Spirit. When elves are married and bonded they are tied to one another via this. If the bond is strong enough, they may communicate between each other, feel similar feelings, and can sense each other from varying distances.


End file.
